Saturday, 11th February, 2006

Saturday Morning Chit-Chat

random

OK, so actually it's Saturday afternoon, but what'cha gonna do eh?

I was going to do all of the following as one big joined-up post, but I quite like seeing lots and lots of entries in the pink blobs over on the left, so I've split it up into seperate chunks.

"Making it up as you go along" is one of my favourite things...

Dear God NOOOOO!

coffee numpty

I thought I'd settle down for a relaxed session of keyboard splurging. You know the kind of thing — fag in one hand, coffee in the other, laptop on lap and bashing your forehead against the keyboard in an attempt to dull the pain from the previous night's excesses.

OK, so maybe that's just me

So I'm like "*la la la* Let's make some coffee..." when I discovered the most unimaginably disastrous thing.

I'd run out of coffee.

Lemme run that by you again...

I'd. Run. Out. Of. Coffee.

Second in awfulness only to the words "I've run out of cigarettes", this situation one of those things that sends my mind into overdrive, trying to come up with some bodgetastic solution to get me out of it.

(Yes, I could go to the shops, but I'm quite comfortable here in my nightie, and only the aforementioned "I've run out of cigarettes" situation would make me get changed)

Now, I'm no connoisseur (I always have to look up how you spell that word), but you'd be forgiven — considering how much I bang on about coffee and stuff — that I'd at least devote myself to Actual Proper Coffee™, and not use instant stuff.

But for the past God-knows-how-long, I've been guzzling myself awake each morning on a diet of Sainsburys own-brand-stuff-that-tastes-a-bit-like-Gold-Blend (because Nestlé Is Bad And Evil™ ).

"Wait!" I thought. "I've still got some old grounds in the fridge!"

And, being hungover as I am, I decided to dig out my little Espresso maker, to get the full benefit from my caffine-inbued powdery friends.

I'm led to believe (and this goes for woks as well, apparently) that it's Not The Done Thing™ to actually wash an espresso maker — just give it a quick rinse — so over time, the flavour becomes more and more intense.

Although I doubt you're supposed to oil them, like you do with woks

Anyway, whatever the generally-accepted procedure, I'm sure I should have at least rinsed it the last time I used it.

Quite how I managed to put it back in the cupboard however many months ago it last saw daylight, still with coffee in it, I'm not sure. But when I opened the lid, I found what can only be described as a new form of life.

Cue fifteen minutes of frantic scrubbing and nose-holding.

...

Oh yeah, and then I burnt my finger when I put it on the hob.

You've been Tangoed

wee

There's a very distant memory in the back of my head — I remember once being told by a friend at school that you could tell just how dehydrated you were by the colour of your wee.

Now I don't know exactly why, but every time I go into the bathroom to wash my hair, regardless of whether I needed a wee before, I always seem to need one.

Anyway, after a night involving whiskey, wine and cider (God, my head hurts today), I was naturally quite ropey this morning. And when I had a wee ... well ...

Swear-to-God, it was the colour of Sunny Delight.

"As A Matter Of Fact, It's All Dark"

whiskey

Had a really nice night last night J (who I don't see as much as I should now he and F don't live next door to me any more) popped round and dragged me out to The Ring Of Bells.

It's ages since I've been out to a pub (if you don't include the daily trek to North Bar in Leeds after work — which you can't really, because all I end up doing is standing watching my colleagues drink, me being the designated driver and all that). I should do it more often really.

We had a few pints, then decided to go on a tiny whiskey-bender, winging our way down Bashful Alley and on to the John 'O Gaunt.

Leaving the whiskey-decisions in the very capable hands of J (who knows a thing or two about the stuff), I plonked myself down at a table, casually wondering if I knew anyone in there that evening.

(I didn't)

J came back from the bar, two glasses in hand, with a slightly ashen-look to his face.

"I got doubles. It cost me twelve quid"

Bloody hell though, it was seriously nice whiskey. (Actually, it was probably scotch, so I shouldn't spell it "whiskey" should I? I only do that to annoy Scottish people)

Fortunately for me, by the time it was my round, we'd left the cosy surroundings of Lancaster's premier Jazz establishment, and found ourselves in The Merchants.

I used to love The Merchants — I used to be in there almost every night. I've got happy memories of drunken escapades in there, like the time I was all over my girlfriend at the time, only to find out it was actually her twin sister whose boyfriend was stood next to her.

But (IMHO) it's gone downhill over the past few years. At one point, it became a chav-favourite, with karaoke of all things.

(I Do Not Do Karaoke™ — except perhaps if I'm really pissed, and only then just to laugh at friends singing "Angels" and realising half-way through that there's no way they're able to reach the high notes, so they drop an octave and hope that no-one notices)

Anyway, my round.

"A Glenfiddich and a Black Bush please"

Nope, it was never going to be as good as the last round.

...

With the taste of nasty whiskey (and whisky) in our mouths, we pottered back to mine in the hope that a nice bottle of wine would cleanse our palates.

It did

Helped along by a documentary about "Dark Side of the Moon" — which prompted me (after J had left) to fill in the gaps in my Pink Floyd music and download The Wall from the iTMS.

Chav! The Musical

lancaster film

Speaking of documentaries and J (and F for that matter), we're off to see a film this afternoon — all about the Marsh Estate (the one that I live near, not on )

I'm not entirely sure what it's going to be like, but if it's any good, I'll maybe write a review or something.

That's what bloggers are supposed to do isn't it?

Nine Inches

hair

I just measured my...

...hair

I was talking to a friend the other day about having long hair. I was reminiscing about that thing that used to happen just after I'd had it cut — random women in the street would rush up to me to run their hands up the back of my neck.

(She said, daydreaming)

It's odd really, thinking back to a couple of years ago when I first decided to grow it. There's a picture of me — just about to go out clubbing without a wig for the first time — and looking back at it, I don't know if I ever thought it would get this long.

Nine inches is not enough though I want it all the way down my back.

I think though, it's probably reached its natural length. My fringe is past my chin, but it doesn't seem to be getting any longer. It's been this length for a good few months now.

The only reason I'm going on about this, BTW, is that earlier, when I was washing it, I had a sudden feeling of disatisfaction with it. Whenever it's just been washed, and is cascading round my neck, I always feel dead chuffed with it.

But when it's sodden and lank, as I'm bent over the edge of the bath, it always seems a lot less impressive.

The Darker Side Of Pink

travels nottingham

Have I mentioned that I'm going to be in Nottingham next week?

I've been meaning to go and visit Mike for a long time now, but only recently decided to seize the day (as it were) and think "Sod it, I'm going over".

Anyway, yeah, Friday night I'm going to this

(God, I have mentioned this before haven't I? I was doing my usual "What am I going to wear?" routine. Sorry about that)

The thing is, you see, I got an email last night off himself, asking me to call him today and sort out the details.

But I'm in that Post Heavy Night™ kind of place. My brain is feeling feeble, and I'm sure I'm going to be a distracted wotsit on the phone.

It's the one thing I really hate about hangovers — once the brain-splitting pain has gone, and even after stomach-churning nausea has dispersed, there's still the incapacitating sense of downess about oneself.

The only way to cure such a feeling (I've found) is to have a pint

OMG

fags

I've run out of cigarettes. God help us all...

readers can splash the day's entries with comments between entry & entry

You know what Zaida? If I had a pound for everyone that told me I needed to do my comments system different, I'd be a very rich — yet dull — girl

Of all the things in the world that I'm proud of — my aesthetics, my work, my kittens — the one thing that makes me go to sleep each night with a sense of smug satisfaction is that this is mine.

Oh and Neil, BTW, just for you, I'll use it (and wear them) more. OK?